Pensée du dimanche 23 septembre

HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
 
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
 
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
—Emily Dickinson

Bonus: An excerpt from Rufus Wainwright’s blindingly beautiful setting of this poem, part of his ballet score “Bloom.” Singing with Sancta Rufola is the spectacular Young People’s Chorus of New York, a group I was honored to write about last year.

Listen soon: The audio file will be available for only a few days.

(Sorry about the bleeding chunk: After a day of fasting and nine hours of davening [plus Friday night’s prayers], I can’t handle basic file editing. I did pray for you all, though—that you be blessed with all good things and stay as sweet as you are.)

Comments

[vilaine fille]

Dearest C,

Thank you!

You know, for years, I read only Italian and Latin poetry, and it has been fun and enriching to become better acquainted with our American geniuses, Dickinson and Whitman among them.

Thank you for your comment!

xxo, v.f.

[Opéra Chanteuse]

Welcome back, my dear!

I have a confession to make. You know, it was through reading your pensée series that I encountered the enchanted world of Emily Dickinson. In the past few weeks, I've been reading a book containing some of her most wildly imaginative creations. In this short time, I've fallen completely madly in love with her poems... her world, her imagination.

I have you to thank for this.

*Chanteuse*

[vilaine fille]

Thank you, dearest. I prayed for you and yours, as well.

Wishing you copious sleep and sweet, sweet dreams, vf/mlr

[Julianne]

I'm very impressed with the davening...and wishing you a blessed new year.